


Break

by bumbleholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cheating, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, John is a Mess, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marking, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Not Season 4/Series 04 Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Post-Season/Series 03, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Mess, This whole thing is just, Top John Watson, Wow, everyone is in pain but it'll get better right, i'm a mess, oof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumbleholmes/pseuds/bumbleholmes
Summary: Paralysing nerves tugged at Sherlock, hooking the words from beneath the tender shrine in his sternum and forcing them to fall out, crumble, in an explosive barrage of unexpected, uncontrolled, unfathomable, pain-stricken proclamations that he, undoubtedly, could never turn back from.-A healing, yet disdainfully painful, path to their proper ending.





	1. Note

**Author's Note:**

> This work was meant to take my mind off of my other published (and unfinished) fic, and instead focus on another aspect of a possible outcome. It has no beta, only grammar corrections by docs.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3

**_I_ **

 

Years ago, Sherlock had first heard a broken vinyl. The afternoon sun tickled the nape of his neck, outlining his curls and sweater in a stencil of warmth; his hand was wrapped tightly around a wooden toy, nearly bleached with wear, and knees dug into the new, sandy-coloured carpet. Reminded of the shore, Sherlock refused to play anywhere but the front room, spreading his swords and figures as far as his youthful grasp could reach. 

Mycroft had called him silly and futile for staying inside, instead of running about the garden, but the young pirate had little care for what his brother thought, focusing on arranging his ships in glorious battalions. A classical tune could always be heard among crashing toys, and his mother taught him how to switch out the records to play whatever he wanted. Even in adolescence, he preferred Bach to almost anything else, and kept his Father’s record on repeat, keeping the concertos thrumming through the room.

He remembered the exact note, at the very end of Brandenberg Concerto No. 5 - a blissful dip in the familiar tune skipped just slightly, not even close to being prominently loud enough to pluck Sherlock’s attention away from his ships and figures. The record played that same note, the cool curve of musical symphony, through the front room, until his brother discovered the fault.

“Redbeard certainly misses you, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s remark pulled the young pirate from his trance. The front door squealed shut, and Mycroft’s moss-coloured windbreaker was hung over Sherlock’s yellow overcoat. “Inside, playing, instead of reading a book, accompanying your brother on taking fungal samples and enjoying time with - as you so eloquently called him - your ‘partner in crime’.” The elder Holmes adjusts his cardigan impulsively, smirk remaining in the fashion that Sherlock grew to loathe.  “How telling, isn’t it?” 

“I collected samples of mud, twigs, and fungi with you just last Tuesday,” Sherlock replied, tone faltering under his brother’s gaze. “And Mummy said…” Plucked from his lazy, happy afternoon, the repeated note caught his shattered attention. He stood up, abandoning his fleet of devout pirates, and quickly tried to fix the record.

“Now, Sherlock -” Mycroft began to say, standing to look at the turntable.

“I didn’t break it!” Panic bubbled up inside the boy as he frantically tried to adjust the needle, shaking hands missing the groves each time, lip quivering with shock.

“Of course not,” came Mycroft’s delicately cool reply. “You were careless, that’s all.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Abusing yourself, denying the irrevocable truth, and placing your heinous carelessness on your work remains as the essence of your failure, little brother.”

“I don’t need your humble opinion, Mycroft. Now, if you would kindly -”

“- Leave you to ruin?”

A jolt of pain shot through Sherlock’s jaw as his teeth clenched together, causing his hand to tighten on the door knob. He fixed his gaze on his violin, which sat amidst abandoned case files, gathering dust in front of a grey window. The last time he’d played had been weeks ago, at a deathly late hour, when Rosie had awoken from a nightmare. His heart twinged at the memory.

“Leave me to handle myself,” Sherlock said, barely above a whisper, intending to vocalise his hurt, but feeling left with a flimsy, school-boy answer.

“And, pray tell, what  _ exactly  _ does that entail?”  _ Cocaine _ .

“Cases, Saint Bartholomew's laboratory, Mrs. Hudson’s honey biscuits, cigarettes - for God’s sake, Mycroft! I am not a child, any more, surely you must realise that, with the reminder of my birthday from Mummy.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Mycroft crossed the space between them, practically hissing at the younger man. “Forty will look much better on you when you can move past this.”  _ John. _

Sherlock flinched away from his brother as a torrid gush of emotion flooded him, seeping into his fingertips, cheeks, and chest. The urge to slam his hardened fist into Mycroft’s jaw, shout and scream, clawed at the detective’s heart. The umbrella-devoted scourge’s lectures had always been achingly forthright; but never so catastrophically crippling.

“Get out.” The words expelled themselves from the depth of Sherlock’s throat, coated in a poisonous tone that turned the request into a snarling demand. 

Ever the cold-blooded monger, Mycroft stayed put, lips tilting into an offstandish smirk. “I’m not here to threaten you, brother dear,” he replied, “But I won’t stand for these games.” He turned his gaze to the sofa, to an abandoned doll, a draped, plum dressing gown, and a spilling case file littered with tea rings. “As blissfully domestic as your... abode appears, I’m afraid a rearrangement is in order. There is a war that must be fought, Sherlock, and surely you mustn’t believe Baker Street supplies the conditions for an invalid doctor and his toddler -”

“ _ Get out _ !” Shocked by the enormous vigor of his own voice, Sherlock’s back smacked against the wall, fist clutching onto the overused doorknob. 

“For God’s sake - what on Earth could you possibly expect from this?” Mycroft’s voice dropped, hinting at that sharp, childhood growl he used constantly to get his way. He took three steps closer, as if penetrating Sherlock’s personal space would emphasise his point, his useless intimidation. “That, because the good doctor visits for cases and take-away, your heart can steal the best of you? That you can abandon everything we - Mummy, that D.I. you fancy so much, Miss Hooper, the bloody, royal Crown itself, and your own  _ brother _ \- have worked desperately, tirelessly on for years just to keep you out of that damned velvet box underneath the moulded floorboard in your bedroom?” He paused, taking in a deep breath. “Enough, Sherlock. This is enough.” The elder Holmes’ back turned away, leaving choking silence in its wake. “You have never, not once in all your years, triumphed over a broken vinyl record, brother. Always, always going back, repeating the same notes.”

Sherlock’s heart sent endless strikes to his rib cage, one after another, as if willing itselft to be seen, heard,  _ felt _ . That rippling in his veins, that electric flare between muscle and skin, that torrid graze of rage in every notch of spine; he could sense every ounce of it, but beneath it, a hardened, permanent stone sunk deeper with a putrid pinch. He felt that, too - the cavern that had built itself through the past years, over nights lost to boring, tedious women; mornings far apart and without forced toast; cases solved, but barren of any laughter; a wedding designed to kill; an empty, doctor-less, toxic hospital room, desolation only rival to the pale hole in his heart.

“It hurts, Mycroft,” came Sherlock’s aching ruse in the silence. “It  _ hurts _ .” As his brothers’ delicately unskilled hand came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, his mind spurred into life, providing flashes of John - his smile, genuine, adoring over their first meal at Angelo’s, all those painstakingly long years ago; his fingers combing roughly through Sherlock’s hair, separating dark curls from a bloody gash;  his curse ringing out as curry stained that awful striped jumper; his vibrant, iridescent blue irises turning glossy with grief upon recognising Sherlock’s face, crumbling his death-based façade; a single tear, followed by an unruly avalanche of siblings, falling onto Sherlock’s burgundy dressing down, their remains dancing in the flickering firelight; his laugh, that hearty, wonderful, heavenly chuckle that momentarily washed away the past, replacing their reunion with true, unbiased  _ joy _ . “I - I care for him; too much, far too much, Mycroft, and it hurts.”

Paralysing nerves tugged at Sherlock, hooking the words from beneath the tender shrine in his sternum and forcing them to fall out, crumble, in an explosive barrage of unexpected, uncontrolled, unfathomable, pain-stricken proclamations that he, undoubtedly, could never turn back from. His body threatened to give out beneath him, saved only by the support of the door and the threat of mockery. Delightedly, Mycroft remained silent, still, unbearably existent, and the whole flat seemed to clog up with suspense and truths, both spoken and unspoken.

  
_It hurts to love John Watson_.


	2. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s voice poured over him like bloodied wine, gruff and metallic, biting at his nerves in glorious perfection. Another bundle of capillaries burst, marking pale bone. A sound escaped flushed lips, and the doctor chased it, devouring the man with an intensity he’d never dreamt possible, igniting a flame deep within him that he’d buried years ago, deep within a Serbian cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes - I messed up! I deleted the original second chapter and replaced it with this. I will likely reuse some parts of the old chapter, but for now, have this!
> 
> (Rough times ensue - please be warned, and head the rating!)

Before, they didn’t talk. They didn’t speak, didn’t say anything that would carry on, incriminate anyone. It was understood, treasured. Instead of words, they - John - used actions. So, the first time it happened, he let it.

Let it hurt. Sting.

Burn his flesh and bones. Melt his intellect and ruin his ethicalities.

Teeth latched viciously onto his jaw, bruising the skin above his scarf-line, tongue following to quickly lavish over the mark. A hand, calloused from weather and a pistol grip, softened by whiskey-kissed glasses, tightened around his hip, pushing a lithe body back roughly against the table. It’s counterpart dragged over a crumpling button-down, pausing at the collar, dragging it down, exposing a pronounced clavicle for hungry lips, and moved to grip at nape curls, tugging enough to evoke a moan from the pliant detective.

“Sherlock… Christ, Sherlock, you taste… so fucking good…” John’s voice poured over him like bloodied wine, gruff and metallic, biting at his nerves in glorious perfection. Another bundle of capillaries burst, marking pale bone. A sound escaped flushed lips, and the doctor chased it, devouring the man with an intensity he’d never dreamt possible, igniting a flame deep within him that he’d buried years ago, deep within a Serbian cellar. “I could… eat… you…  _ up _ …” 

The detective cried out as John’s hand on his hip twisted and grasped onto his left buttock, squeezing hard enough to test the seams of his trousers. The sound earned a rough chuckle from John, who leaned back enough to press a too-tender kiss to Sherlock’s chin. 

“I want you,” he breathed against a gasping mouth, “I want to take you apart. Watch you tremble, gasp, know that you’re -” he stopped then, a glassy filter passing over sapphire irises.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “That I’m what, John?” His voice shook, carrying little of the powerful confidence it had been trained to do after years of forced  façades . The marks on his thin, malnourished skin twinged, and John’s slipped from it’s grip on his arse; he caught it with his own, uncoordinated from the wine. Hungered, passionate gazes met, and John was against him again, diving against his lips, demanding entrance immediately. Sherlock granted it, and pressed his rear once again into the warmest, most powerful and wonderful grip he’d ever known. 

“ _ Mine _ .” The word was a growl, pressed to the shell of his ear, sending shocks of gooseflesh and thrill across his skin, into his veins. He cried out, lungs heaving as his back arched; John’s hand had left his hair, pinching a hardened nipple through silky fabric. Sherlock’s fingers jumped to greying hair, rubbing the strands between his shaking digits. “Mine, Sherlock,” his lips, open and demanding, ran over his jaw, tongue licking at the bruise he’d left behind, “Say it.”

“Yours, John, yours,  _ yours  _ -” he gasped out the sentiment, a prayer to the fading ceiling of 221B, a groan of pleasure beating his voice as John’s palm rubbed at his clothed erection. “John - John, I want - more, please, please, I -” He looked desperately down at the doctor, relishing in his rosy lips, glowing eyes, and moussed hair. “I want…”

John’s tongue ran over his lips, and within a moment, he was reaching in his jacket, pulling out a packet of lube and a condom. The silver band on his left hand glinted in the dim, fluorescent light of the kitchen as he flung the packets onto the table behind Sherlock. 

“Over.” Strong hands met slender hips, shoving him easily until his front pressed against the cold table. A palm pushed against his back, and Sherlock’s front met the wooden surface, hands pushing flasks desperately out of the way. Glass crashed against the tile as John’s fingers tugged at Sherlock’s taut fly, shucking his trousers and pants with a groan. 

A moment passed as cool air rushed over Sherlock’s arse, and his lungs held still, heart hammering against his ribs; then, like the first ray of Spring light, a single, thick digit traced a line over the crest of his left buttock, running into the crease before a palm and four other fingers grabbed hold, squeezing the flesh hard enough to bruise. Sherlock’s lungs gave in, heaving out a pleasured whimper, hips jutting back into the grip, nudging against a hot, denim-enclosed erection. 

“Fuck -” John’s curse rang through the flat, followed by the quick metallic whip of a fly being undone and a belt hitting the floor. The ache in Sherlock’s chest to turn and look nearly got the best of him, but John’s hand kept him firmly in-place, table edge digging against his hips. Lips ran up his back, tongue lavishing over marled and botched skin, chasing cigar burns and whip lines. A distinctive ‘click’ met Sherlock’s ears, and a moment later, a cool-slick digit was pressing down his arse, over his furled hole.

The doctor wasted little time, pressing his skilled finger inside tight heat to the first knuckle, eliciting a surprised moan from Sherlock, who instantly pressed back, itching for more. As his lips opened to beg, and John’s third knuckle rested against the ring of muscle, a second was added, searching out a nested bundle, expertly stroking across it within seconds. 

“John -” Sherlock cried out, hips jerking forward, erection dragging across the underside of the table roughly.

The doctor said nothing in return, simply grasped the bony hip in his palm, keeping the detective as still as possible as a third finger was added. John’s breath traced he dips of Sherlock’s spine, tongue reaching out to caress the pronounced vertebrae as he stretched, pressed, took. 

Sherlock’s body trembled, knuckles white against the veined table. As John stilled, slipped his fingers out, and the sound of a metallic fly filled the flat, a shiver rendered the detective voiceless. His mind ran flat, cells focusing on the hot pressure points of perfectly-calloused fingers against his rigid bone, the ghost of lips across his spine, the beautiful stretch of his body as John pressed inside, rigid and slow and thick. Sherlock’s lung heaved out, a moan tumbling from his lips.

“Jesus,” John sighed. A languid roll of his hips sheathed much of his well-endowed member within the binds of Sherlock’s body; another had him seated, cotton denim caught between heated skin and coarse, sandy hair. “That’s it.”

A single brush against Sherlock’s prostate made him quiver, a clean line of precome rolling down his aching shaft and around his bollocks. The doctor wasted no time, hips receding within seconds of being pressed against plush arse, only to be slammed back again, sparking a rough cry from Sherlock, whose back arched on instinct, arse pressing back, seeking out more.  John’s response was instant - his teeth found a bruise from minutes before, already blossoming against marble, and teased at the skin next to it, tongue lapping up sweat and moans as his hips snapped back and rammed forward again, expertly targeting the perfect bundle of nerves needed to make Sherlock cry out again, and again, and again. 

The scent of whiskey and wine barely filtered through fading aftershave and lust. The air settled deep within Sherlock’s heaving lungs, coating his tongue with sweetness as his body yielded to the craving he’d held dear for a near-decade. Canting back with each thrust, he leaned into the hand in his hair, moaning when the sensitive strands were tested, and exposed his abused neck, lavishing in the treatment it received, licks and kisses and bites in-time with thrusts of battlefield-raised hips. Each motion tested the table, wood scraping along tile, cracking floor-bidden shards of glass, and for a brief moment, Sherlock prayed someone would hear, would ask, would see the marks on his neck, the hint in his walk, would know he was taken, claimed, loved.

He was coming, John’s cock slamming into his prostate, dripping with lubricant and precome as the man himself exhaled behand the shell of a pink ear, whispering, “Mine, Sherlock, mine - do you feel it, what you do to me? Fuck, so bloody tight for me, I’ve wanted my cock in this arse for years, wanted to make you scream, cry, beg… Just for me.” A sob wracked it’s way from his throat, vibrating against the wood beneath his lips, giving his lungs room to take in the bitter-sweet words, the golden pleasure. Expense erupted across the underside of the table, stripes landing lewdly on the dirty tile, dripping down his wet cock, around his bollocks, seeping into John’s actions. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, fuck -” The release inside him boiled and soothed, hips stammering as they planted their final marks; John buried his nose deep in Sherlock’s hair, breathing against stinging follicles as his cock stroked against an abused organ. 

Within minutes, the doctor’s still-clothed body peeling itself from a paler one, the table was abandoned, shattered glass forgotten, lube open and dripping next to pig’s blood. Pants and trousers were returned, Sherlock’s shirt left open against his flushed chest, a telling root to the blossoms on his neck.

“Shower,” John said, voice curt and sharp, resonating with trained military expertise. “I need to sleep.” The same hands which had left unforgettable imprints on the detective’s body reached for his jacket, tugged it over his sagging shoulders. 

The words’ sting blew the glow off of Sherlock’s skin, making his weak limbs shiver in the fluorescent light. “Sleep here.”

A scoff, “No. No, I’m not - that’s not what happens after this, all right?” Once-sparkling blue irises landed on his own, carrying a dullness that gripped onto his core.

“Then what happens?” Sherlock’s voice trembled, and John’s feet shifted, hesitating a moment before sliding into his shoes. 

“We go home, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 

The second time, he’s ready. 

John’s hand is on his arse the moment flashing lights fade from the street, leaving a wake of hollowed alley and breathless men. 

“Sherlock,” he gasped, tongue lavishing fading marks just-above a prominent clavicle, scarf lost in the cobblestone muck. “Christ, you’re brilliant.”

A moan is the only response the detective can provide. His hips cant forward, seeking out the other man’s; instead, they’re pushed roughly against a damp brick wall, bruised from gun-stricken fingertips. 

“John,” his voice wavered, thick with hesitation, eyes catching the metal caught on the doctor’s ring finger. 

“I want you. God, I fucking want you, Sherlock. Tell me -” His nose pressed against Sherlock’s ear, breath hot against sensitive skin. “Tell me.” A sturdy hand shifted, hovering over the fly of the detective’s trousers, thumb running along the length, eliciting a sharp exhale. 

“Yes,” it’s barely audible, a pen-drop within a thriving city; but John lunged, fingers fighting with metal and cotton to reach Sherlock’s throbbing member, his own insistent against the crevice of slender thigh and hip. “Take me. Please. Here.” The words tumble out, scattering across slicked grey-blonde hair, sparkling in the amber streetlamp light, a perfect, unbelievable reflection of the night sky above. 

John growled, a vibration the struck Sherlock’s bones, enlightened his nerves and the blood rushing from his mind. He let the grime-afflicted wall catch his body as he was turned, cheek against cool brick, and his trousers were left around his knees, arse open, cheeks kneaded like dough as John bit at the nape of his neck.

He was pliant. His body, on-fire, sparkling with the knowledge and reality of what was happening, how beautiful it was, how much he’d wanted it, how he’d dreamt and  _ begged _ for it. John’s saliva was enough, to work him open, to stroke his length, to allow the doctor to thrust into him, deeply, leaving no room for pain or regret. 

With his lips scarred from hungry teeth and harsh brick, his arse full and heart throbbing, Sherlock knew this was how it should be: John, marking him, claiming him,  _ taking _ him in a muck-filled, infested alleyway still littered with evidence of a murderer’s arrest. He deserved it. Everyone knew that. Anyone could see it. 

Burning, he came, thick stripes of expense landing on dewey brick. John followed, praising him for his beauty, his tightness, tumbling over with curses and a ring-bound hand gripping dark curls. 

 

* * *

 

 

The third ended with blood.

“Hit me,” Sherlock had said. John’s fist was trembling, folding in on itself, it’s counterpart relying on a weak glass of whiskey. “Hit me, John.”

“No.” The word was strict, perfected through military precision. The glass went steady. Sherlock watched, hungry, as the rim was brought to thin lips, silver band stark against paling skin and deep whiskey. He fell, letting his knees go weak as they hit carpet. John’s eyes met his, dark irses scalding with hurt. “No, Sherlock.” He inched forward, his body coming to rest at John’s calf between their chairs. The doctor’s jaw clenched.

He wanted this. Sherlock wanted this. He wanted the pain, the release, the satisfaction to radiate within John’s bones. He wasn’t her, wasn’t his wife, but he could offer more, offer what he needed. “Please.”

John’s gaze fell, rested on the empty glass in his palm. “No. No. Stop it.” His lips turned up in a humourless smile. “I’m not falling for this. You’re not - you’re not the one who - fuck, fuck, fuck it -” the glass was thrown, shattered against old wallpaper. Sherlock’s chin ducked, cheek resting against a jean-clad thigh. “You’re not the one who - damn it, fuck, Sherlock…”  _ Who got pregnant with another man’s child. Who killed my best friend. Who manipulated our entire relationship. Who hid her identity in place of another woman’s. Who lied, who lied, who lied - _

“I know.”

John was on him, pushing him down, grabbing his hair, collar, hips. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks, landing on Sherlock’s own. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, but John was already pushing, biting, lavishing. 

“I want her to see you. See this. See what I can do. See how much you - you would do for me,” he sobbed, “See the marks and come and - Jesus, Sherlock!” He was crying. Sherlock was crying, too, he was sure of it, sure he wasn’t imagining it. He opened his mouth to say something, to rebuttal, to explain that there was no possibility of her not knowing what had been done, that she was too clever, but John had undone his shirt, and was biting, tasting his peaked nipples, rendering his mouth useless. “I want her to see me make you come.”

John’s hips pressed against Sherlock’s, an act of violence, erupting hisses of pleasure and pain from both men. The detective arched off the carpet, lips opening once more to allow a strangled noise passage. 

“I want her to see what _ I _ do to you.”

Another harsh stroke of hip, solid, clothed erections dragging together. 

“I want her to see what she ruined -” Sherlock cried out, grasping John’s shoulders, toughened by a rough cardigan and alcoholic meal replacements. “- What she took away.”

John fell silent, lip trembling as he buried his face against Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in, tasting; Sherlock’s fingers found golden strands, honeyed with age, and stroked them, savouring the smooth sensation as his abdomen tightened, burned. The doctor’s hands took his wrists, pinning them above his head.

“Come for me,” he said. His voice trembled, gravelly with grief, anger, and lust, as he pressed their clothed erections together. Sherlock groaned with the contact, back arching again, “Come for me, just for me, Sherlock…”

His release spilled against the back of his own trousers, seeping through expensive cloth. John moaned, loudly, and worried lips found his own dry ones, crushing, invading, taking, teeth tugging at the tender flesh. Sherlock’s breaths pattered tanned cheeks, damp eyelids refusing to open, even as John came, tearing apart the skin of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Fuck -” a single drop of blood dripped down the detective’s chin without a flinch. He let it happen, let it drip onto the carpet, let the metallic taste spill onto his own tongue, and watched, in wonder, as John’s tongue found the small drop on his own lip. The golden stroke left him trembling, hands useless with need as they reached, tracing hollowed cheeks and roughened eyebrows.  _ Beautiful _ . 

He tried to say it, to whisper it, let it fill John up, like his own sun-filled voice did. Instead, a choked noise escaped from his chest; John’s mouth was moving, forming words he could not hear beyond his own breaths. Then he was alone, blood licked and kissed and savoured away, blackening the married man. 

 

_ The time has come to stop, brother. MH _

 

_ Ever the broken record, aren’t we? MH _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <33


	3. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary left six days later. A week later, a bassinet landed on the steps of 221 Baker Street, a note scribbled upon a scratch of expensive parchment reading, ‘A reminder for a memory. - M.M.’

**_III_ **

Mary left six days later. A week later, a bassinet landed on the steps of 221 Baker Street, a note scribbled upon a scratch of expensive parchment reading, ‘ _ A reminder for a memory. - M.M. _ ’

The baby was immediately taken into the eldest Holmes’ custody, bassinet, blanket, clothing, and DNA put beneath the harshest examinations and scrutiny in the country. John Watson, tied to the suburbs, was kept in the dark for a month, security following each sip he took from shaking bottles. 

Sherlock was tasked with a political affair in Northern France within an hour of the child’s confiscation. Without a word, he took his leave, tucking a velvet-dorned box beneath his socks within a small traveling case. Stationed above a courtyard, needle dry on the window’s ledge with a glow akin to the stars in the moonlight, Sherlock dreamt.

John’s golden skin and silvering hair bloomed from the sharp point of his syringe, enveloping him in pleasure and guilt; he touched, caressed, whispered. The detective’s mouth gaped open, French-Autumn air filling his lungs, tingling between his fingertips. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t what he wanted.

“Hit me, John,” he breathed, and he did. His knuckles came first, teasing at the sting of a trained backhand. “Again.” He did, a punch landing atop his right cheekbone. “More, more, John, more -”

And he did. This John, faded and cursed and unreal, grabbed, pinched, struck, punched, strangled - whispering the things everyone knew, but never said: “You’re worthless. Made a vow, for what? To risk my life? To get my wife pregnant with another man’s  _ fucking child _ ? To get me in bed with you? To get me to fuck you, you horrible, worthless,  _ pathetic _ little man -”

Until he blacked out. 

 

* * *

 

 

Subsequently, he missed his suspect leaving the hotel, and Mycroft’s surveillance was useless. He was set back another day, but his dismay was lost over coffee; afterall, a week, as he’d been told, was a meaningless task duration. A day would hardly make a difference in his absence. But, in the end, a day didn’t matter.

He returned to London the first week of December, three months late. John Watson greeted him with a bottle that landed against the wall above his right shoulder. Sherlock sobbed, falling to his knees.

John left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter - I'm sorry! I've been busy with work and recovery from Hurricane Florence. I hope to be updating sooner next time.


End file.
